Blue-Tail Fly

Liberation

21 Liberation Del Norte, 1846 1. Catch my reflection in the breadbox tin. I see dried maws, and the eyeballs of a pig staring out as if candied. So, what would you know? I have the children— yams from my garden. I eat them with butter. I am their momma. Blood soup. I slaughter and wring my hands in the raising, feed them my sorrows, wrap them in white, green, red cloth— daughters for sons, sons for rebellion, daughters for their daughters, sons for me, daughters for planting, sons for the pluck, each one for the feast of mothers. 2. You say, Wife, when you were young I could touch you. So, old man who leaves me empty, what would you know? I have the legs to draw water. 3. Stopped by the curve of an iron spoon— 22 I squint in the sun, a baked corn face more wrinkled every revolution. I squatted to birth, it widened my hips. I carry a grandchild on each one and a well bucket in either hand— so what does anyone know unless the earth rolls a boulder from their cave. Husband, in the last battle you lost your arms— I do not expect your caress. 4. This morning I stroked my breasts with a pigeon’s feather while my fingers played in the tufts beneath my belly. This old woman shed onion tears. Before you return I will have thrown away all shining objects then smeared the knives with lard, and the mirrors you bought to shame my falling nipples and keep my mouth from filling my belly— I have cracked them all! Ha! Ha! to the spirits they held. Today, I bury them behind the turnips. ...